


They stole our youth from us

by Gigs



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: ww1 au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 08:53:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5284499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigs/pseuds/Gigs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day that war was declared and Britain began shuffling her feet in fear, Smith lost contact with half his family. Letters bound for Germany or any of the nations looking to slide into the enemy camps vanished into the hands of government officials tearing them open hoping to glean traitorous sentiment from the ink. As Sir Edward Grey concluded his speech about grave consequences to the house of Commons thousands of conversations were put to an end. The Browns and the Bauers stopped making polite conversation when they passed each other on the way to the village halls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They stole our youth from us

             The day that war was declared and Britain began shuffling her feet in fear, Smith lost contact with half his family. Letters bound for Germany or any of the nations looking to slide into the enemy camps vanished into the hands of government officials tearing them open hoping to glean traitorous sentiment from the ink. As Sir Edward Grey concluded his speech about  _grave consequences_ to the House of Commons, thousands of conversations were put to an end. The Browns and the Bauers stopped making polite conversation when they passed each other on the way to the village halls.  

 _It’ll be over by Christmas_ Mrs Hornby says over and over as Ross fills his pack with writing paper and _socks dear, don’t forget your socks_. He hears it again and again from those who care about him but it slows and is lost amidst the words of praise for answering his country’s call for aid. By the time he catches the first of many trains to the Salisbury barracks that whisper of comfort is well extinguished by the overriding promise of valour and glory made vocal by the thousands of young soldiers around him. Thousands of other hims. 

Army life suits Ross. He’s tall and fit – the first few weeks of training, while gruelling, hone what youthful muscle he had into something worthwhile and he has to admit that Private Hornby has a pleasant ring to it. It grows on him as he hears it more followed by commendation instead of correction. He’s a decent shot and far from the most foul-mouthed of the troop which had been his mother’s primary concern that he would be _corrupted by a soldier’s ungodly vocabulary!_  

He even makes friends – there’s a whole slew of village boys like him and they band together against the city types who, even with their sub-standard skill are already being tipped for Officer status. This goes down less than well with those who aren’t as good at staying quiet as Ross. 

“Fucking class tactics isn’t it?” Private Smith spouts as the first in their troop is promoted. The boy’s father was a minor politician and he couldn’t shoot the side of a barn if the barn was on top of him. Smith said as much to the boy’s face and was written up for insubordination immediately which he took as gracefully as anyone could’ve imagined he would. It didn’t mean as much to be written up here but Ross still held his insults and thoughts in check. Smith was undeterred. By the time they reach France Smith has half a dozen marks by his name and not an ounce of regret for any of them. 

“Can’t have farmer’s boys leading the way showing how it’s done – might have to give us the fucking vote then!” Ross laughs at that, low and rumbling and Smith smiles at him. Ross likes Smith, he’s funny, has an inch on Ross which is impressive even to himself. It would take a blind man not to see he’s handsome and an ignorant one to notice that he was too clever for his own good. 

He likes Ross too for apparently all the same reasons although Ross laughs him off whenever Smith extols his virtues. While Ross is a good shot Smith is fantastic; a fact which gets him approved for sniper training in their first week. This undeniable mark of skill coupled with all his other traits means he divides opinion pretty evenly. While Ross likes Smith there are plenty of others who very much _don’t_. 

It’s not a problem at first; in fact the petty tricks have Smith and Ross laughing more than anything. Shaving cream in his boots, his gear spread out across the field that sort of thing. As their friendship grew ‘his’ became ‘their’ and it becomes a twice weekly excursion at dawn to track down Ross and Smith’s belongings. It’s irritating but nothing that sparks more than a string of expletives when they find out how they’ve been fucked with this time around. Ross channels it into his hand-to-hand training; a practice that he starts to make heads turn during. Smith cheers him on echoing the _eat shit_ chant that Ross found himself taking up once he found out that slamming enemies into the mud was a satisfying means to ending their bothering him. He briefly thinks how his mother would be appalled before he takes it up again gleeful and joyous next to Smith. 

The one area where the few that remained against them scrabble for purchase was Smith’s passivity about his family. Ross figures that a few too many words about someone’s mother in any country would get a rise out of even the most level of men; but not Smith. He never volunteers information about them but neither does he take any insult about his mother / sister / uncle with anything more than a raised eyebrow and a laugh at the more creative barbs. 

Regardless it is on this front that Ross and Smith’s succeed-past-them-but-don’t-engage-with-them offense breaks. 

They’re in France when the slip up happens, having made the stomach churning journey across the channel. They’re waved off by a land-held sea of white hanky carrying well-wishers. Ross feels proud as it vanishes behind them, when he looks at Smith he thinks he can it too. A miss-timed step, the butt of a gun catches Smith in the bridge of the nose instead of him ducking it neatly and true to form he lets rip on his attacker.

 “ _Arschloch!”_ He shouts, knocking the rifle from his partner’s hands before clutching at his bloody nose “ _verdammter Idiot!_ ” The cold air of the November morning carries his perfectly accented curse to all ears and makes him the focus of the yard’s attention. Ross can’t help but stare along with them. Smith continues to swear, in English now stemming the blood that has started to trickle from his nose. Smith’s accent did not have the stilted over-loud jarred nature of the German that some of the officers spoke, British distaste thickening any tonal aptitude for the language.

 Smith had spoken without flaw – and with that the vagueness about his family was made as clear as the uneasy realisation creeping across his face. “ _Shit._ ” He whispers in the second before the yard erupts into chaos.


End file.
